I sent my heart in a letter
to a friend.
A person who uses words like rage as a verb
and thinks that rollerskating drunk is
an unbelievably great idea until
the next morning when bruised knees sting.
I keep my mind half on a girl
I met in a square-a box
that was much too small for anything
she could imagine while simultaneously
holding a pen
Near one-thousand miles away
somewhere in the snow flanked
not-chicago-side-lake-michigan banks
there is a bit of my soul-split by love in my heart and not blood on my hands
that walks around and thinks and laughs
Here in all that is me
a nice mixture of what I am is
her.
The best of what a person becomes, is a friend.
and I can only hope as she is to me I am to her
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